


Six of Crows

by cookingwithcyanide



Series: Chopped and Screwed [1]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: ... oops, M/M, Six of Crows AU, also robotnik uses a cane which as a cane-user i appreciate, and as such this was Born, bluffs double bluffs perhaps even the fabLED TRIPLE BLUFF??, crosses and double crosses!, descriptions of violence, kaz and robotnik are cut from the same stone its flinty and sharp and good at negotiating, robotnik gets to grandstand and show off what a clever boy he is, stone gets to do some neat acrobatics and is adept with knives, there are plots and machinitions!, wade gets shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26602459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookingwithcyanide/pseuds/cookingwithcyanide
Summary: Ivo Robotnik didn’t need a reason. Those were the words whispered on the streets of Agaricale, in the taverns and coffeehouses, in the dark and bleeding alleys of the pleasure district. The man they call the Surgeon didn’t need a reason- to break a leg, sever an alliance, or change a man’s fortune with the snap of his gloved fingers.Of course they were wrong, Stone considered as he crossed the bridge over the black waters of the canal to the deserted main square that fronted the Exchange. Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppet show. Robotnik always had his reasons. Stone could just never be sure that they were good ones. Especially tonight.
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Series: Chopped and Screwed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935235
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Six of Crows

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Chopped and Screwed, the series in which I take well loved published works and bastardize them for my own nefarious purposes! In this installment we reflect on the first chapter of Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows, a favorite of mine from my high school days wrecking house with the Battle of the Books team. Kaz Brekker was my darling, he DESERVES to be the vessel by which I send Robotnik into this expansive fictional world. He has the style, the flair, the absolute cunning and will to do what needs doing to achieve his terrible ends. And Stone and Inej play the part of the right hand man, closer to the leader than anyone else could hope to get; both practical and capable and able to surmount any amount of strife. As an added bonus, they both look great in black. Let’s make this happen.
> 
> The bulk of this text is transcribed directly from Six of Crows, with new characters added and some culled, paragraphs lengthened or cut or rearranged, dialogue and setting altered, descriptions warped and expanded upon, and plotlines already starting to diverge from the source text. We’ll call it 60/40. Leigh Bardugo made something wonderful; I’m just here to stick my dastardly fingers in it and fuck around with the guts and the frosting until it suits my horrible little whims. Enjoy the… meat cake? It’s delicious.

Ivo Robotnik didn’t need a reason. Those were the words whispered on the streets of Agaricale, in the taverns and coffeehouses, in the dark and bleeding alleys of the pleasure district. The man they call the Surgeon didn’t need a reason- to break a leg, sever an alliance, or change a man’s fortune with the snap of his gloved fingers.

  


Of course they were wrong, Stone considered as he crossed the bridge over the black waters of the canal to the deserted main square that fronted the Exchange. Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppet show. Robotnik  _ always _ had his reasons. Stone could just never be sure that they were good ones. Especially tonight.   
  


Stone checked his knives, silently reciting their names as he always did when he thought there might be trouble. It was a practical habit, but a comfort too. The blades were his companions. He liked knowing they were ready for whatever the night might bring.   
  
He saw Robotnik and the others gathered near the great stone arch that marked the Eastern entrance to the Exchange. Three words had been carved into the rock above them:  _ Promyshlennost, Tselostnost, Protsvetaniye _ . Industry, Integrity, Prosperity.

  


He kept close to the shuttered storefronts that lined the square, avoiding the pockets of flickering gaslight cast by the streetlamps. As he moved, he inventoried the men Robotnik had brought with him: an assortment of his favored men from the gang, and his chosen seconds for tonight’s parley, Novichok and Whipple. They jostled and bumped one another, laughing, stamping their feet against the cold snap that had surprised the city this week, the last gasp of winter before spring began in earnest. They were all brawlers and bruisers, culled from the younger members of the Badniks, the people Robotnik trusted most. Stone noted the glint of knives tucked into their belts, lead pipes, weighted chains, axe handles studded with rusty nails, and here or there, the oily gleam of a gun barrel. He slipped silently into their ranks, scanning the shadows near the Exchange for signs of Quill Tip spies.

  


“Three ships!” Novichok was saying. “The Amanita sent them. They were just sitting in First Harbor, cannons out, red flags flying, stuffed to the sails with gold.”   
  


Whipple gave a low whistle. “Would have liked to see that.”

  


“Would have liked to  _ steal _ that,” replied Novichok. “Half of Congress was down there flapping and squawking, trying to figure out what to do.”

  


“Don’t they want their debts paid?” Whipple asked.

  


Robotnik shook his head, dark hair glinting in the lamplight. He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges- sharp jaw, lean build, wool coat snug across his shoulders. “Yes and no,” he said in his rock salt rasp. “It’s always good to have a country indebted to you. Makes for friendlier negotiations.”

  


“Maybe the Amanita are done being friendly,” said Novichok. “They didn’t need to send all that treasure at once. You think they stuck that ambassador?”

  


Robotnik’s eyes found Stone unerringly in the crowd. Agaricale had been buzzing about the assassination of the ambassador for weeks. It had nearly destroyed the Agagicale-Mycena relations and sent Congress into an uproar. The Mycena blamed the Agaricale, and the Agaricale suspected the Amanita. Robotnik didn’t care who was responsible; the murder fascinated him because he couldn’t figure out how it had been accomplished. In one of the busiest streets in the business district, in full view of more than a dozen government officials, the Mycena trade ambassador had stepped into a washroom. No one else had entered or left, but when his aide knocked on the door a few minutes later, there had been no answer. When they’d broken down the door, they’d found the ambassador facedown on the white tiles, a knife in his back, the sink still running.

  


Robotnik had sent Stone to investigate the premises after hours. The washroom had no other entrance, no windows or vents, and even Stone hadn’t mastered the art of squeezing himself through plumbing. Yet the Mycena ambassador was dead. Robotnik hated a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and he and Stone had concocted a hundred theories to account for the murder- none of which satisfied. But they had more pressing problems tonight.

  


Stone saw him signal to Novichok and Whipple to divest themselves of weapons. Street law dictated that for a parley of this kind each lieutenant be seconded by two of his foot soldiers and that they all be unarmed.  _ Parley _ . The word felt like deception- strangely prim, an antique. No matter what street law decreed, this night smelled like violence. 

  


“Go on, give those guns over,” Andrei said to Novichok.

  


With a great sigh, Novichok removed the gun belts at his hips. Stone had to admit he looked less himself without them. The Mycena sharpshooter was long-limbed, brown skinned, constantly in motion. He pressed his lips to the pearl handles of his prized revolvers, bestowing each with a mournful kiss. 

  


“Take good care of my babies,” Novichok said as he handed them over to Andrei. “If I see a single scratch or nick on those, I’ll spell  _ forgive me _ on your chest in bullet holes.”

  


“You wouldn’t waste the ammo.”

  


“And he’d be dead halfway through  _ forgive, _ ” Whipple said as he dropped a hatchet, a switchblade, and his preferred weapon- a thick chain weighted with a heavy padlock- into Mikhail’s expectant hands.

  


Novichok rolled his eyes. “It’s about sending a message. What’s the point of a dead guy with  _ forg _ written on his chest?”

  


“Compromise, boys,” Robotnik said. “ _ I’m sorry _ does the trick and uses fewer bullets.”

  


Andrei laughed, but Stone noted that he cradled Novichok’s revolvers very gently.

  


“What about that,” Novichok asked, gesturing to Robotnik’s walking stick. 

  


Robotnik’s laugh was low and humorless. “Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?”

  


“If the cripple is you, then anyone with sense.”

  


“Then it’s a good thing we're meeting Wachowski.” Robotnik drew a watch from his vest pocket. “It’s almost midnight.”

  


Stone turned his gaze to the Exchange. It was little more than a large rectangular courtyard surrounded by warehouses and shipping offices. But during the day, it was the heart of Agaricale, bustling with wealthy merchants buying and selling shares in the trade voyages that passed through the city's ports. Now it was nearly twelve bells, and the Exchange was deserted but for the guards who patrolled the perimeter and the rooftop. They’d been bribed to look the other way during tonight’s parley. 

  


The Exchange was one of the few remaining parts of the city that hadn’t been divvied up and claimed by Agaricale’s rival gangs. It was supposed to be neutral territory. But it didn’t  _ feel _ neutral to Stone. It felt like the hush in the woods before the snare yanks tight and the rabbit starts to scream. It felt like a trap.

  


“This is a mistake,” he said. Whipple startled; he hadn’t known he was standing there. Stone heard the name the Badniks preferred for him whispered among their ranks-  _ the Wraith _ . “Wachowski is up to something.” 

  


“Of course he is,” said Robotnik. His voice had the deep, sharp ring of a glacier cracking. Stone always wondered if he’d sounded like that when he was a young man. If he’d ever been a young man.

  


“Then why come here tonight?”

  


“Because this is the way Dyadya Sam wants it.”

  


_ Old man, old ways,  _ Stone thought but didn’t say, and suspected the other Badniks were thinking the same thing- not that they’d admit it aloud. Robotnik was nearly as old as Dyadya Sam himself, even if he was five times more effective and ten times cleverer.

  


“He’s going to get us all killed,” Stone said.

  


Novichok stretched his arms overhead and grinned, his teeth white against his dark skin. He had yet to give up his rifle, and the silhouette of it across his back made him resemble a gawky, long-limbed bird. “Statistically, he’ll probably only get some of us killed.”

  


“It’s not something to joke about,” he replied. The look Robotnik cast him was amused. He knew how he sounded- stern, fussy, like an old crone making dire pronouncements from her porch. He didn’t like it, but he also knew he was right. Besides, old women must know something, or they wouldn’t have time to gather wrinkles and yell from their front stoops. 

  


“Novichok isn’t making a joke, Stone,” said Robotnik. “He’s figuring out the odds.”

  


Whipple cracked his huge knuckles. “Well, I’ve got a lager and a plate of pierogi waiting for me at the Gostinitsa, so I can’t be the one to die tonight.”

  


“Care to place a wager?” Novichok asked.

  


“I’m not going to bet on my own death.”

  


Robotnik flipped his hat onto his head and ran his gloved fingers along the brim in a quick salute. “Why not, Whipple? We do it every day.”

  


He was right. Stone’s debt to Dyadya Sam meant that he gambled his life every time he took on a new job or assignment, every time he left his room at the Slat. Tonight was no different.

  


Robotnik stuck his walking stick against the cobblestones as the bells from the Church of Barter began to chime. The group fell silent. The time for talk was done. “Wachowski isn’t smart, but he’s bright enough to be trouble,” said Robotnik. “No matter what you hear, you don't join the fray unless I give the command. Stay sharp.” Then he gave Stone a brief nod. “And stay hidden.”

  


“No mourners,” Novichok said as he tossed his rifle to Mikhail.

  


“No funerals,” the rest of the Badniks murmured in reply. Among them, it passed for “good luck.”

  


Before Stone could melt into the shadows, Robotnik tapped his arm with his crow’s head cane. “Keep a watch on the rooftop guards. Wachowski may have them in his pocket.” 

  


“Then-” Stone began, but Robotnik was already gone.

  


Stone scoffed and shook his head. He had a hundred questions, but as usual, Robotnik was keeping a stranglehold on the answers.

  


He jogged toward the canal-facing wall of the Exchange. Only the lieutenants and their seconds were allowed to enter during the parley. But just in case the Quill Tips got any ideas, the other Badniks would be waiting right outside th eastern arch with weapons at the ready. He knew Wachowski would have a crew of heavily armed Quill Tips gathered at the western entrance. 

  


Stone would find his own way in. The rules of fair play among the gangs were from Dyadya Sam’s time. Besides, he was the Wraith- the only rule that applies to him was gravity, and some days he defied that too.

  


The lower level of the Exchange was dedicated to windowless warehouses, so Stone located a drainpipe to shinny up. Something made him hesitate before he wrapped his hand around it. He drew a bonelight from his pocket and gave it a shake, casting a pale green glow over the pipe. It was slick with oil. He followed the wall, seeking another option, and found a stone bearing a stone cornice bearing a statue of Agaricale’s three flying fishes within reach. He stood on his toes and tentatively felt along the top of the cornice. It had been covered in ground glass.  _ I am expected, _ he thought with grim pleasure.

  


He’d joined up with the Badniks just two years ago, just days before his eighteenth birthday. It had been a matter of survival, but it gratified him to know that, in such short time, he’d become someone to take precautions against. Though, if the Quill Tips thought tricks like this would keep the Wraith from his goal, they were sadly mistaken. 

  


He drew two climbing spikes from the pockets of his quilted vest and wedged first one then the other between the bricks of the wall as he hoisted himself higher, his questing feet finding the smallest holds and ridges in the surface. As a child learning the high wire, he’s gone barefoot. But the streets of Agaricale were too cold and wet for that. After a few bad spills, he’d paid a Grisha Fabrikator working in secret out of a gin shop downtown to make him a pair of leather slippers with nubbly rubber soles. They were perfectly fitted to his feet and gripped any surface with surety. 

  


On the second story of the Exchange, he hoisted himself onto a window ledge just wide enough to perch on. 

  


Robotnik had done his best to teach him, but he didn’t quite have his way with breaking and entering, and it took him a few tries to finesse the lock. Finally, he heard a satisfying  _ click _ , and the window swung open on a deserted office, its walls covered in maps marked with trade routes and chalkboards listing share prices and the names of ships. He ducked inside, refastening the latch, and picked his way past the empty desks with their neat stacks of orders and tallies. 

  


He crossed to a slender set of doors and stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the central courtyard of the Exchange. Each of the shipping offices had one. From here, callers announced new voyages and arrivals of inventory, or hung the black flag that indicated that a ship had been lost at sea with all its cargo. The floor of the Exchange would erupt into a flurry of trades, runners would spread the word throughout the city, and the price of goods, futures, and shares in outgoing voyages would rise or fall. But tonight all was silence.

  


A wind came in off the harbor, bringing the smell of the sea, ruffling Stone’s hair where it had grown long, needing to be cut. Down in the square, he saw the sway of lamplight and heard the bump of Robotnik’s cane on the stones as he and his seconds made their way across the square. On the opposite side, he glimpsed another set of lanterns heading towards them. The Quill Tips had arrived. 

  


Stone raised his hood. He pulled himself onto the railing and leapt soundlessly to the neighboring balcony, then the next, tracking Robotnik and the others around the square, staying as close as he could. Robotnik’s dark coat rippled in the salt breeze, his limp more pronounced tonight, as it always was when the weather turned cold. He could hear Novichok keeping up a lively stream of conversation, and Whipple’s high, wheezing chuckle. 

  


As he drew nearer to the square, Stone saw that Wachowski had chosen to bring Karolina and Karl- exactly as he predicted. Stone knew the strengths and weaknesses of every member of the Quill Tips, not to mention Harley’s Pointers, the Rings, the Razorgulls, the Chaos Emeralds, and every other gang on the streets of Agaricale. It was his job to know that Wachowski trusted Karolina because they’d come up the ranks of the Quill Tips together, and because Karolina was built like a stack of boulders- nearly seven feet tall, dense with muscle, their wide, mashed-in face jammed low on a neck as thick as a pylon. 

  


He was suddenly glad Whipple was with Robotnik. That Robotnik had chosen Novichok to be one of his seconds was no surprise. Twitchy as Novichok was, with or without his revolvers, he was at his best in a fight, and Stone knew he’d do anything for Robotnik. He’s been less sure when Robotnik had insisted on Whipple as well. Wade was a bouncer at the Crow Club, perfectly suited to tossing out drunks and wasters, but too heavy on his feet to be much use when it came to a real tussle. Still, at least he was tall enough to look Karolina in the eye.

  


Stone didn’t want to think too much on Wachowski’s other second. Karl made him nervous. He wasn’t as physically intimidating as Karolina. In fact, Karl was made like a scarecrow- not scrawny, but as if beneath his clothes, his body had been put together at wrong angles. Word was he’d once crushed a man’s skull with his bare hands, wiped his palms clean on his shirt, and kept right on drinking.

  


Stone tried to quiet the unease rolling through him, and listened as Wachowski and Robotnik made small talk in the square while their seconds patted each other down to make sure no one was carrying.

  


“Naughty,” Novichok said as he removed a tiny knife from Karolina’s sleeve and tossed it across the square. They sneered unabashedly back.

  


“Clear,” declared Whipple as he finished patting down Wachowski and moved onto Karl.

  


Robotnik and Wachowski discussed the weather, the suspicion that the Gostinitsa was serving watered down drinks now that the rent had been raised- dancing around the real reason they come here tonight. In theory, they would chat, make their apologies, agree to respect the boundaries of Fifth Harbor, then all head out to find a drink together- at least that’s what Dyadya Sam wanted.

  


_ But what does Dyadya Sam know? _ Stone thought as he looked for the guards patrolling the roof above, trying to pick out their shapes in the dark. Sam ran the Badniks, but these days, he preferred to sit in the warmth of his room, drinking lukewarm lager, building model ships, and telling long stories of his exploits to anyone who would listen. He seemed to think territory wars could be settled as they once had been: with a short scuffle and a friendly handshake. But every one of Stone’s senses told him that was not how this was going to play out. His father would have said that the shadows were about their own business tonight. Something bad was going to happen here.

  


Robotnik stood with both gloved hands resting on the carved crow’s head of his cane. He looked totally at ease, his narrow face obscured by the brim of his hat. Most gang members in the Barrel loved flash: gaudy waistcoats, watch fobs studded with false gems, trousers of every print and pattern imaginable. Robotnik was the exception- the picture of restraint, his dark vests and trousers simply cut and tailored on severe lines. At first, Stone had thought it was a matter of taste, but he’d come to understand that it was a joke he played on the upstanding merchants. He enjoyed looking like one of them.

  


“I’m a businessman,” he’d said to Stone. “No more, no less.”

  


“You’re a thief, Robotnik.”

  


“Isn’t that what I just said?”

  


Now he looked like some kind of priest come to preach to a group of circus performers. An  _ old _ priest, he thought, with another pang of unease. Robotnik had called Wachowski washed up, but he certainly didn’t seem that way tonight. The Quill Tips’ lieutenant might have wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes and a paunch slightly jutting over the line constraint of his belt, but he looked confident, and energetic. Next to him, Robotnik looked… well, forty-three. 

  


“Let’s be fair,  _ da?  _ All we want is a little more scrub,” Wachowski said, tapping the mirrored buttons of his lime-green waistcoat. “It’s not fair for you to cull every spend-happy tourist stepping off a pleasure boat at Fifth Harbor.”

  


“Fifth harbor is ours, Wachowski,” Robotnik replied. “The Badniks get first crack at the pigeons who come looking for a little fun.”

  


Wachowski shook his head. “Talk sense, Robotnik,” he said with an indulgent laugh. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how these things work. The harbors belong to the city, and we have as much a right to them as anyone. We’ve all got a living to make.”

  


Technically, that was true. But Fifth Harbor had been useless and all but abandoned by the city when Robotnik had taken it over. He’d had it dredged, and then built out the docks and the quay, and he’d had to mortgage the Crow Club to do it. Dyadya Sam had railed at him and called him a fool for the expense, but eventually he’d relented. According to Robotnik, the old man’s exact words had been, “Take all that rope and hang yourself.” But the endeavor had paid for itself in less than a year. Now Fifth Harbor offered berths to merchant ships, as well as boats from all over the world carrying tourists and soldiers eager to see the sights and sample the pleasures of Agaricale. The Badniks got first try at all of them, steering them- and their wallets- into brothels, taverns, and gambling dens owned by the gang. Fifth Harbor had made the old man very rich, and cemented the Badniks as real players in the Barrel in a way that not even the success of the Crow Club had. But with profit came unwanted attention. Wachowski and the Quill tips had been making trouble for the Badniks all year, encroaching on Fifth Harbor, picking pigeons that weren’t rightfully theirs.

  


“Fifth Harbor is ours,” Robotnik repeated. “It isn’t up for negotiation. You’re cutting into our traffic from the docks, and you intercepted a shipment of  _ jurda _ that should have docked two nights ago.”

  


“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  


“I know it comes easy, Wachowski, but try not to play dumb with me.”

  


Wachowski took a step forward. Novichok and Whipple tensed.

  


“Quit flexing,  _ Doctor,” _ Wachowski spat the title like it was ridicule. “We all know the old man doesn’t have the stomach for a real brawl.”

  


Robotnik’s laugh was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves. “But  _ I’m _ the one at your table, Wachowski, and I’m not here for a taste. You want a war, and I’ll make sure you eat your fill.”

  


“And what if you’re not around, Robotnik? Everyone knows you’re the spine of Sam’s operation- snap it and the Badniks collapse.”

  


Novichok snorted. “Stomach, spine, what’s next, spleen?”

  


“Shut it,” Karl snarled. The rules of parley dictated that only the lieutenants could speak once negotiations had begun. Novichok mouthed “sorry” and elaborately mimed locking his lips shut.

  


“I’m fairly sure you’re threatening me, Wachowski,” Robotnik said. “But I want to make certain before I decide what to do about it.”

  


“Sure of yourself, aren’t you, Robotnik?”

  


“Myself and nothing else.”

  


Wachowski burst out laughing and elbowed Karl. “Listen to this cocky old piece of crap. Robonik, you don’t own these streets. Hangers-on like you are fleas. A new crop of men came into play over a decade ago and you lot just stick around to annoy your betters until a big dog decides to scratch. And let me tell you, I’m about tired of the itch.” He crossed his arms, pleasure rolling off him in waves. “What if I told you there are two guards with city-issue rifles pointed at you and your boys right now?”

  


Stone’s stomach dropped. Was that what Robotnik had meant when he said Wachowski might have the guards in his pocket?

  


Robotnik glanced up at the roof. "Hiring city guards to do your killing? I'd say that's an expensive proposition for a gang like the Quill Tips. I'm not sure I believe your coffers could afford it."

  


Stone climbed onto the railing and launched himself from the safety of the balcony, heading for the roof. If they survived the night, he was going to kill Robotnik. 

  


There were always two guards posted on the roof of the Exchange. A few dollars from Robotnik's gang and the Quill Tips ensured they wouldn't interfere with the parley, a common enough transaction. But Wachowski was implying something very different. Had he really managed to bribe city guards to play sniper for him? If so, the Badniks' odds of surviving this night had just dwindled to a knife's point. 

  


"Took some doing," Wachowski admitted. "We're a small operation right now, and city guards don't come cheap. But it'll be worth it for the prize." 

  


"That being me?" Robotnik raised a single dark brow. 

  


"That being you." 

  


"I'm flattered." 

  


"The Badniks won't last a week without you." 

  


"I'd give them a month on pure momentum." 

  


The thought rattled noisily around in Stone's head.  _ If Robotnik was gone, would I stay? Or would I skip out on my debt? Take my chances with the Dyadya Sam’s enforcers? _ If he didn't move faster, he might well find out.

  


"Smug little slum rat," Wachowski laughed. "I can't wait to wipe that look off your face." 

  


"So do it." Robotnik said. Stone looked down. His voice had changed, all humor gone from his voice. 

  


"Should I have them put a bullet in your good leg, Doctor?" 

  


_ Where are the guards? _ Stone thought. The Exchange stretched nearly the length of a city block. There was too much territory to cover. 

  


"Stop  _ talking, _ Wachowski. Tell them to shoot." 

  


"Doctor-" behind him, Novichok shifted nervously. 

  


"Go on. Find your balls and give the order."

  


What game was Robotnik playing? Had he expected this? Had he just assumed Stone would find his way to the guards in time?

  


He glanced down again. Wachowski radiated anticipation. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. Stone's steps faltered, and he had to fight not to go sliding straight off the edge of the roof.  _ He’s going to do it. I’m going to watch Ivo die.” _

  


“Fire!” Wachowski shouted.

  


A gunshot split the air. Whipple let loose a cry and crumpled to the ground. 

  


“Damn it!” shouted Novichok, dropping to one knee beside Whipple and pressing his hand to the pullet wound as the big man moaned. “You worthless piece of shit!” he yelled at Wachowski. “You just violated neutral territory.”

  


“Nothing to say you didn’t shoot first,” Wachowski replied. “And who’s going to know? None of you are walking out of here.”

  


Wachowski’s voice sounded too high. He was trying to maintain his composure, but Stone could hear panic pulsing against his words, the startled wing beat of a frightened bird. Why? Moments before, he’d been all bluster.

  


That was when Stone saw Robotnik still hadn’t moved. “You don’t look so well, Wachowski.”

  


“I’m just fine,” he said. But he wasn’t. He looked pale and shaky. His eyes were darting right and left as if searching the shadowed walkway of the roof.

  


“Are you?” Robotnik asked conversationally. “Things aren’t going quite as planned, are they?”

  


“Doc,” Novichok said. “Wade’s bleeding bad-”

  


“Good,” said Robotnik.

  


“Ivo, he needs a medik!”

  


Robotnik spared the wounded man the barest glance. “What he needs to do is stop his bellyaching and be glad I didn't have Holst take him down with a headshot.”

  


Even from above, Stone saw Wachowski flinch.

  


“That’s the guard’s name, isn’t it?” Robotnik asked. “Willem Holst and Bert Van Daal- the two city guards on duty tonight. The ones you emptied the Quill Tips’ coffers to bribe?”

  


Wachowski said nothing.

  


“Willem Holst,” Robotnik said loudly, his voice floating up to the roof, “likes to gamble almost as much as Novichok does, so your money held a lot of appeal. But Holst has much bigger problems- let’s call them urges. I won’t go into detail. A secret’s not like a coin. It doesn’t keep its value in the spending. You’ll have to trust me when I say this one would turn even your stomach. Isn’t that right, Holst?”

  


The response was another gunshot. It struck the cobblestones near Wachowski’s feet. Wachowski released a shocked bleat and sprang back.

  


This time Stone had a better chance to track the origin of the gunfire. The shot had come from somewhere near the west side of the building. If Holst was there, that meant the other guard- Bert Van Daal- would be on the east side. Had Robotnik managed to neutralize him, too? Or was he counting on Stone? He sped over the gables.

  


“Just shoot him, Holst!” Wachowski cried, desperation sawing at his voice. “Shoot him in the head!”

  


Robotnik snorted in disgust. “Do you really think that secret would die with me? Go on, Holst,” he crooned. “Put a bullet in my skull. There will be messengers running to your wife and your watch captain’s door before I hit the ground.”

  


No shot came.

  


“How?” Wachowski said bitterly. “How did you even know who would be on duty tonight? I had to pay through the gills to get that roster. You couldn’t have outbit me.”

  


“Let’s say my currency carries more sway.”

  


“Money is money.”

  


“I trade in information, Wachowski- the things men do when they think no one is looking. Shame holds more value than coin ever can.”

  


He was grandstanding, Stone saw that, buying him time as he leapt over the slate shingles.

  


"Are you worried about the second guard? Good old Bert Van Daal?" Robotnik asked. "Maybe he's up there right now, wondering what he should do. Shoot me? Shoot the Holst? Or maybe I got him too, and he's getting ready to blow a hole in your chest, Wachowski." He leaned in as if he and Wachowski were sharing a great secret. "Why not give Van Daal the order and find out?" 

  


Wachowski opened and closed his mouth like a carp, then bellowed, "Van Daal!" 

  


Just as Van Daal parted his lips to answer, Stone slipped up behind him and placed a blade to his throat. He's barely had time to pick out his shadow and slide down the roof tiles. Saints, Robotnik liked to cut it close. 

  


"Shhhhh," he whispered in Van Daal's ear. He gave him a tiny jab in the side so he could feel the point of his second dagger pressed against his kidney. 

  


"Please," he moaned. "I-" 

  


"I like it when men beg," Stone said, "But this isn't the time for it." 

  


Below, he could see Wachowski's chest rising and falling with panicked breaths. "Van Daal!" he shouted again. There was rage on his face when he turned back to Robotnik. "Always one step ahead, aren't you." 

  


"Wachowski, when it comes to you, I'd say I have a running start."

  


But Wachowski just smiled- a tiny smile, tight and satisfied.  _ A victor’s smile, _ Stone realized with fresh fear.

  


“The race isn’t over yet.” Wachowski reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy black pistol. 

  


“Finally,” Robotnik said. “The big reveal. Now Novichok can stop keening over Whipple like a wet-eyed woman.”

  


Novichok stared at the gun with stunned, furious eyes. “Whipple searched him. He… Oh, Wade, you idiot,” he groaned.

  


Stone couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The guard in his arms released a tiny squeak. In his anger and surprise, he’s accidentally tightened his grip. “Relax,” he said, easing his hold. But, all Saints, he wanted to put a knife through something. Whipple had been the one to pat down Wachowski. There was no way he could have missed the pistol. He’s betrayed them.

  


Was that why Robotnik had insisted on bringing Whipple here tonight- so he’d have public confirmation that Whipple had gone over to the Quill Tips? It was certainly why he’d let Holst put a bullet in Whipple's gut. But so what? Wade was a traitor. Robotnik still had a gun pointed at his chest.

  


Wachowski smirked. “Ivo Robotnik, the great escape artist. How are you going to wriggle your way out of this one?”

  


“Going out the way I came in.” Robotnik ignored the pistol, turning his attention to the big man lying on the ground. “Do you know what your problem is, Whipple?” He jabbed at the wound in Wade’s stomach with the tip of his cane. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Do you know what your biggest problem is?”

  


Whipple mewled. “Noooo…”

  


“Give me a guess,” Robotnik hissed.

  


Wade said nothing, just let out another trembling whimper.

  


“Alright, I’ll tell you. You’re lazy. I know it. Everyone knows it. So I had to ask myself why my laziest bouncer was getting up twice a week to walk two extra miles to Cilla’s Fry for breakfast, especially when the eggs are so much better at the Gostinitsa. Wade Whipple becomes an early riser, the Quill Tips start throwing their weight around Fifth Harbor and then intercept our biggest shipment of  _ jurda. _ It wasn’t a tough connection to make.” He sighed and said to Wachowski, “This is what happens when stupid people start making big plans,  _ da?” _

  


“Doesn’t matter much now, does it?” Replied Wachowski, although he cast a regretful glance at Whipple’s prone form. “This gets ugly, I’m shooting from close range. Maybe your guards get me or my guys, but there’s no way you’re going to dodge this bullet. 

  


Robotnik stepped into the barrel of the gun so that it was pressed directly against his chest. He loomed over the man like a macabrely grinning spectre. “No way at all, Wachowski.”

  


“You think I won’t do it?”

  


“Oh, I think you’d do it gladly, with a song in your black heart. But you won’t. Not tonight.”

  


Wachowski’s finger twitched on the trigger.

  


“Ivo,” Novichok said. “This whole ‘shoot me’ thing is starting to concern me.”

  


Karl didn’t bother to object to Novichok mouthing off this time. One man was down. Neutral territory had been violated. The sharp tang of gunpowder was already in the air- and along with it a question, unspoken in the quiet, as if the shadows themselves awaited the answer: How much blood will be shed tonight?

  


In the distance, a siren wailed. 

  


“19 Zelenyy Kholm Street,” Robotnik said.

  


Wachowski had been shifting slightly from foot to foot; now he went very still.

  


“That’s your girl’s address isn’t it, Wachowski?”

  


Wachowski swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  


“Oh yes, you do,” crooned Robotnik. “She’s pretty too. Well, pretty enough for a fink like you. Seems sweet. You love her, don’t you?” Even from the rooftop, Stone could see the sheen of sweat on Wachowski’s waxen face. “Of course you do. No one that fine should have ever looked twice at barrel scum like you, but she’s different. She finds you charming. Sure sign of madness if you ask me, but love is strange that way. Does she like to rest her pretty head on your shoulder? Listen to you talk about your day?”

  


Wachowski looked at Robotnik as if he was finally seeing him for the first time. The man he’s been talking to had been cocky, reckless, easily amused, but not frightening- not really. Now the monster was here, dead-eyed and unafraid. Ivo Robotnik was gone, and the Surgeon had come to see the rough work done.

  


“She lives at 19 Zelenyy Kholm Street,” Robotnik said in his earnest glacier-crack tone. “Three floors up, geraniums in the window boxes. There are two Badniks waiting outside her door right now, and if I don’t walk out of here whole and feeling righteous, they will set that place alight from floor to rooftop. It will go up in seconds, burning from both ends with poor Maddie trapped in the middle. Her pretty black hair will catch first. Like the wick of a candle.”

  


“You’re bluffing,” said Wachowski, but his pistol hand was trembling.

  


Robotnik lifted his head and inhaled deeply. “Getting late now. You heard the siren. I smell the harbor on the wind, sea and salt, and maybe- is that smoke I smell, too?” There was pleasure in his voice.

  


_ Oh, Saints, Ivo, _ Stone thought miserably.  _ What have you done now? _

  


Again, Wachowski’s finger twitched on the trigger, and Stone tensed.

  


“I know, Wachowski, I know,” Robotnik said sympathetically. “All that planning and scheming and bribing for nothing. That’s what you’re thinking right now. How it will feel to walk home knowing what you’ve lost. How angry your boss is going to be when you show up empty-handed and that much poorer for it. How satisfying it would be to put a bullet in my heart. You can do it. Pull the trigger. We can all go down together. They can take our bodies out to the Reaper’s Barge for burning, like all the paupers go. Or you can take the blow to your pride, go back to Zelenyy Kholm Street, lay your head in your girl’s lap, fall asleep still breathing, and dream of revenge. It’s up to you, Wachowski. Do we get to go home tonight?”

  


Wachowski searched Robotnik’s gaze, and whatever he saw there made his shoulders sag. Stone was surprised to feel a pang of pity for him. He’s walked into this place buoyed on bravado, a survivor, a champion of the Barrel. He’d leave as another victim of Ivo Robotnik.

  


“You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, Robotnik.”

  


“I will,” said Robotnik, “if there's any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

  


Wachowski let his arm drop. The pistol dropped uselessly by his side.

  


Robotnik stepped back, brushing the front of his shirt where the gun barrel had rested. “You tell your general to keep the Quill Tips out of Fifth Harbor and that we expect him to make amends for the shipment of  _ jurda _ we lost, plus five percent for drawing steel on neutral ground and five percent more for being such a spectacular band of asses.”

  


Then Robotnik’s cane swung in a sudden sharp arc. Wachowski screamed as his wrist bones shattered. The gun clattered to the paving stones.   
  
“I stood down!” cried Wachowski, cradling his hand. “I stood down!”

  


“You draw on me again and I’ll break both your wrists, and you’ll have to hire someone to help you take a piss.” Robotnik tapped the brim of his hat with the head of his cane. “Or maybe you can get the lovely Maddie to do it for you.” 

  


Robotnik crouched next to Whipple. The big man whimpered. “Look at me, Wade. Assuming you don’t bleed to death tonight, you have until sunset tomorrow to get out of Agaricale. I hear you’re anywhere near the city limits and they’ll find you stuffed in a keg at Cilla’s Fry.” Then he looked at Wachowski. “You help Whipple, or I find out he's running with the Quill Tips, don’t think I won’t come after you.”

  


“Please Ivo,” moaned Whipple.

  


“You had a home, and you put a wrecking ball through the front door, Wade. Don’t look for sympathy from me.” He rose and checked his pocket watch. “I didn’t expect this to go on for so long. I’d best be on my way or poor Maddie will be getting a trifle warm.”

  


Wachowski shook his head. “There’s something wrong with you, Robotnik. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not made right.”

  


Robotnik cocked his head to one side. “You’re from the suburbs, aren’t you, Wachowski? Came to the city to try your luck?” He smoothed his lapel with one gloved hand. “Well, I’m the kind of bastard they only manufacture in the Barrel.”

  


Despite the loaded gun at the Quill Tips’ feet, Robotnik turned his back on them and limped across the cobblestones toward the eastern arch. Novichok squatted down next to Whipple and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. “Idiot,” he said sadly, and followed Robotnik out of the Exchange.

  


From the roof, Stone continued to watch as Karl picked up and holstered Wachowski’s gun and the Quill Tips said a few quiet words to each other.

  


“Don’t leave,” Whipple begged. “Don’t leave me.” He tried to tug on the cuff of Wachowski’s trousers.

  


Wachowski shrugged him off. They left him curled on his side, leaking blood onto the cobblestones. 

  


Stone plucked Van Daal’s rifle from his hands before he released him. “Go home,” he told the guard. 

  


He cast a single terrified glance over his shoulder and sprinted off down the walkway. Far below, Wade had started trying to drag himself across the floor of the Exchange. He might be stupid enough to cross Ivo Robotnik, but he’s survived this long in the Barrel, and that took will. He might make it.

  


_ Help him, _ a voice inside Stone said. Until a few moments ago, he’d been his brother in arms. It seemed wrong to leave him alone. Stone could go to him, offer to put him out of his misery quickly, hold his hand as he passed. He could fetch a medik to save him.

  


Instead, he spoke a quick prayer in the language of his Saints and began the steep climb down the outer wall. Stone pitied the boy who might die alone with no one to comfort him in his last hours, or who might live and spend his life as an exile. But the night’s work wasn’t yet over, and the Wraith didn’t have time for traitors.

**Author's Note:**

> I do have plots and plans to use this chapter as a jumping-off point for a proper AU of this book because GOD does it deserve my time and ministrations, but we all know how my best laid plans go, especially in regards to my writing. Expect the next chapter in three days, eighteen months, or a year or so after my presumed death. The muse, she is ephemeral, no?


End file.
